


Eight Thousand Meters

by marylex



Category: Oz (HBO)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marylex/pseuds/marylex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison is like climbing the mountain must be, like the death zone, like the street - you can't stop, you can't ever stop. If you do, then you die where you fall.</p><p>Written for Oz Graffixation 2011 to accompany <a href="http://oz-graffiti.livejournal.com/49564.html">art</a> by dustandroses. Set during Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Thousand Meters

Prison is like climbing the mountain must be, like the death zone, like the street - you can't stop, you can't ever stop. If you do, then you die where you fall. It's you against the mountain, and you can't fuck it up, not if you want to make it back home. There's no margin for error, no point spread - not at the summit, not in Oz.

You can't stick around to help the others. They slow you down, pull you down, and you end up freezing to death beside them.

Beecher's face swims behind Ryan's eyelids in the dark - sudden, grinning, something a little feral lurking under petulant rebellion and stupid bravado, glinting off the edges, too sharp and quickly gone for even Ryan to close his fingers around it, like his appearance in the frame of the ViewMaster, on the heels of the Grand Canyon and Everest and the other Natural Wonders Of The World, sliding in between things with deep roots and built really fucking big.

Seven Wonders Of The World, right? Places all over the world packaged neat and clean, served up in 3-D, just waiting for stereoscope in a kid's toy to bring them to life, colors brilliant and edges so sharp you could almost put your hand in the picture and touch them, close your fingers around them. Eleven years old and three reels in the pack - Ryan can still feel a corner of the stiff packaging scratching his back where he stuffed it down his pants, under a baggy T-shirt bought too big so he didn't grow right out of it. He already had Germany and the Emerald Isle at home, but he didn't even bother to look at what he was grabbing, too busy scanning both ends of the store aisle.

He only has one of those reels left, but that's OK, because it's the seven Natural Wonders, and those are the ones that really count, anyway.

The seven Modern Wonders were the first to go, round cardboard reel soggy and torn in his sweatshirt pocket after a downpour, caught out on the way home from school, bits of film ruined and sharp around the edges once they were ripped out of their holder. Seamus threw away the seven Ancient Wonders out of spite. Ryan doesn't even remember what he did to earn it.

So there's only the Natural Wonders left, but that's all right, because those are the ones Ryan gives a shit about, anyway. What's the point of ancient statues and buildings that aren't even around anymore, stuff he'll never get to see, stuff he can only ever look at fake copies of? Those things - they're dead, past, done. Literally ancient history. All that shit, it's gone, and he can't put out his hand and touch it, close his fingers around it.

You can't look back. You can't stop moving. So give Ryan the motherfucking forces of nature: Everest; the Amazon; the Hawaiian volcano, heat and explosive force running just under its skin, waiting to erupt and take down everything in its path. Give him the implacable force, the immovable object, the shit with its roots down deep in the earth and built really fucking big, eternal, everlasting.

He's not so impressed by those trees out in California, though - no matter how big and old he hears they're supposed to be. How is he supposed to be impressed by something you can tear down with 20 minutes and a chainsaw?

So, six Natural Wonders, then. And a forest. That you maybe can't see for all the trees.

He huffs a laugh, loud in the echoing stillness of the Hole, ringing clear in the black, answered by metallic banging, two sharp raps from whatever hack's parked their lazy ass on the other side of the door tonight with one of those fucking batons, and maybe Ryan's supposed to be grateful it's just being laid upside the door instead of his face, again.

Motherfucker.

"Shut _up_ , O'Reily. Jesus Christ, it's the middle of the damn night."

Ryan's known plenty of guys who thought they were implacable, everlasting, when really, all they were was big.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

To beat a mountain, to survive in the death zone, on the street, in Oz, you've just gotta do two things: Be prepared and be smart. You can't ever stop - not even at the top. Any asshole with enough sheer willpower can get up a mountain - it's getting back down that's the trick.

You get stuck at the top of the world, all your reserves eaten in the push to get there, and nobody else is carrying you down. Nobody's bringing you back. They leave the bodies behind, Ryan's read that - leave them where they fall, walk right past them on the way to the top, step right over them to get home. The only ones who slow down are the ones who are already dying. You got no one to depend on but yourself, no one to blame but yourself, and you can't afford to blow off a misstep or a wrong decision, can't hope it will shake out in the end. You can't breathe hope, it can't keep you warm. There's no margin for error - you have to fix that shit, ASA-fucking-P, catch your mistakes, recalculate, shift your plans, adapt.

It's easy to fuck up, in the death zone, on the street, even for Ryan - simple, even. It's built that way, no safeguards, really fucking big, all jacked up and thin air stealing the breath right out of your lungs, moving too fast for you to keep up. You take your eye off the ball for one goddam minute, and everything goes to shit. Seamus taught him that.

Cyril taught him that.

A bunch of people got themselves killed last year, up on the mountain. Ryan read about it. It was Cyril, indulging him, spotting the mountain on the cover of some magazine or other, off to one side of the convenience store rack, probably, edged aside by the skin mags - Ryan can picture it in his head, Cyril lifting the thing, tucking it into his jacket just as casually as he tossed it in front of Ryan when they met at the Aegean, throwing it down on the counter by Ryan's half-empty cup.

 _That's your mountain, right?_

He stole Ryan's coffee too, kicked him in the shin when he slid into the seat next to him at the counter and smirked like it was an accident. The Aegean always did have good coffee, thick and strong, better than anything Shannon managed, and salty feta in their eggs along with the peppers and onions.

Ryan slicks his tongue over his chapped lower lip in the dark, pausing to probe the sting of a cut that won't heal, a raw rough patch with barely any pinprick taste of copper left to it, but he can't stop himself from worrying at it.

Eight people, dead on the goddam mountain in a single day, and every now and then, he wonders if Cyril knew what he was giving Ryan, if there was some kind of message, some kind of subtle _fuck you_ in there, deliberate - Cyril being an asshole, like he could be, back in the day, when he could be. Or maybe he'd just seen the mountain on the cover, maybe the name, and picked it up, brought it to Ryan at the diner where they were waiting to meet Joey Laccona - _Joey Bones_ , he'd already started calling himself, shit-eating grin wide, the dumb dago motherfucker. Neutral ground at the Aegean and hot strong coffee and Cyril midstream handicapping the upcoming Bulls game, and it was four months before Joey would fuck them over, six months before Ryan would fuck _him_ over, fuck his girl in a church coatroom - six months before Ryan took his eye off the goddam ball and everything went to shit.

Eight people, dead on the mountain, and every now and then, Ryan wonders if there was some kind of message there, some kind of _fuck you_ , like a crystal ball frozen in the hard surface and sharp ridges of a glacier.

She was hot though, Joey's girl, Ryan's ex - he has to admit it, shifting in the dark, running light fingertips over his belly, tracing downward with the slow laziness of someone who's got nowhere to be, any time soon. She was hot and slick, thighs opening easy for his fingers and his cock, salt on his tongue, the scent of flowers and some kind of dark spice filling his head, something heavy on her skin from her perfume when he nudged into the hollow of her throat, sharp teeth laying just against her collarbone, where he could draw blood if he really wanted to, and heat running under her skin.

Ryan always wants what he's not supposed to have.

He flicks through images in the darkness, glossy photos in a magazine: hardscrabble rock under drifts of snow, cliff faces scoured bare by high winds, blue sky and rows of faded prayer flags like washing on the line.

Ryan could do it. He knows he could climb the mountain - shit, he's already stared death down once, thanks to Dino Ortolani.

In the darkness that passes for night, he feels cool fingertips, light and tickling, brushing across the seams where they sliced him open, laid him out wide to dig out the bullets, where they stitched him back together. He shies away from the phantom touch, shaking it off like drops of cold water, shuddering out from under the hands tracing scars on his chest, down his side, circling the exit wounds on his back, and he presses his palms flat to his stomach to stop his own fingers from roaming the twisted skin.

Ryan's no pussy, and he's not stupid. You'd have to be a dumbass, to not be able to beat a mountain. It doesn't even have a brain. He'll still have time, when he gets out of here. Maybe Beecher would want to go with him. Maybe Beecher could go with him. Cyril never would have wanted to go, anyway. Oh, he would have gone with Ryan, but it only would have been because he belongs - _belonged_ \- at Ryan's shoulder, watching his back. Cyril would have gone, when he could have gone, because look what kind of shit goes down when he's not backing Ryan up - Dino Ortolani, out of nowhere, three shots and the copper salt taste of blood and cold creeping under Ryan's collar, closing in on him.

Ryan's back, it feels cold every day now, but that's nothing new, nothing brought on by Oz. So if he huddles a little bit closer to Beecher every now and then, it's just sharing body heat in sub-zero temperatures.

He can feel Beecher now like the other man is still tucked up under his arm, leaning against the wall of Em City, pressed close enough to smell the sweat and salt of him, the bloodwarm heat, and shaking in uncontrollable laughter. It's not all that different from chicks who've hung all over Ryan because he can hook them up.

Ryan's fucked rich girls before.

He rubs thumb against fingers, against sense memory of hard little nipples and stoned giggles, shirts only half off. Cool hands close around his wrists, pressed into thin skin and a tracery of blue veins, blood running hot just underneath the touch, waiting to erupt. He tests his tongue against the sharp edges of his teeth, and phantom fingertips brush over his chest, down his side, circling the exit wounds on his back, mapping out the twisted seams where they stitched him back together.

They're just scars, right? Doesn't mean anything that Beecher's seen them, got his hands on them, smirking like it was an accident, something feral buried deep, glinting off the edges before it was replaced by fascination and focus. Beecher's got his own scars because of Dino, that fucking dago, just one more of the assholes who underestimated Ryan, one more dumbass who got stuck at the top of the world, reserves eaten up in the push to get there and nothing left to carry him back down.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

It's you against the mountain, and you leave the bodies where they fall - walk right by them on your way to the top, step right over them to get home. It's already past, done, ancient history.

Or it was. Right up until Ryan fucked up.

It's easy to fuck up, in the death zone, in Oz - even for Ryan. It's built that way - no safeguards, everything moving too fast, the ground cracking suddenly under you.

He always wants what he's not supposed to have - shared body heat in the sub-zero temperatures, bloodwarm just under the skin, salt on his tongue and something dark filling his head, slow and lazy and comfortable and _stupid_ , lowering his guard, pulling him down. He underestimated Beecher, because Beecher was street-dumb, right? Street-dumb and traumatized and high as a kite a lot of the time, thanks to Ryan. Beecher was someone - something - to pass the time, maybe an unwitting eye and ear on Vern and those other _sieg heil_ fucks, and then Ryan took his eye off the goddam ball.

A ghost of the reaction washes through him again, realization cold as meltwater and then the bolt of adrenaline - fear and anxiety and anger - and he catches himself crouched low in the dark, pressed back into one corner, stone rubbing rough against a shoulder blade, and he bites back nausea and panic and vertigo because he can't even be sure which corner it is in the pitch darkness of the Hole at night, can't tell where he's ended up, where he is. He can't figure out how Beecher slid in like that, through every defense Ryan learned from Seamus and the street. He can't figure out how he underestimated Beecher so badly.

It's not like you could ever expect Beecher to do anything except what he did, not like you could expect him to do anything but grab for the line hanging out over the abyss - no more than you could expect Ryan to do anything other than what he does, what he has to do. Nobody else is going to watch out for you. Nobody's going to get you back down the mountain, nobody's going to carry you home. They'll walk right past you, step right over you - you and all the other poor dumb motherfuckers who slowed down long enough to die.

Nobody's going to give you anything - not what you want, not what you need. Who the hell has anything to spare, to give, in the death zone, in Oz?

No, you have to just take it where you can find it, wrap your fingers around it and hold on, even if - when - the sharp edges of the ruined bits make you bleed. You have to grab it fast, without even bothering to look at what it is, scan both ends of the aisle and get out while you can. Because if you take your eye off the ball for one goddam second, suddenly you're just casually spilling shit about Jefferson Keane and the Latinos without even thinking, and then Beecher's on it, sharp like Ryan didn't need him to be, and you've got no one to blame but yourself.

So it was Ryan's fuckup, his misstep, his moment of weakness, and that's why he had to fix it ASA-fucking-P. You can't just hope shit like that'll shake out in the end. This was big, it could ruin everything, could kill him like Ortolani's bullets never managed to do.

Beecher's face flashes behind Ryan's eyelids again, burnt negative, blown out, danger waiting to erupt and take down everything in its path, and Ryan slams a hand against the wall, once, twice, a flash of remembered anger quickfiring through his muscles, jerking him from his crouch.

If Beecher had just left it alone, if he had just listened to Ryan, everything would have been fine.

But admit it, Ryan tells himself, roaming the edges and the limits of the darkened Hole, admit it - Beecher doesn't know what's good for him, he doesn't know _shit_ , street-dumb and traumatized and looking for something - anything - to make him feel good again, to make him feel good about himself - good and useful and ... and _productive_ , like some kind of upstanding member of society. It's not like Ryan didn't know, like he didn't use the exact same bait on Beecher, got him back on the lawboy tip, on the lawboy tit, asking Beecher to look at his own hopeless case. Ryan's fucked rich girls before. It's not like he didn't know just looking at Beecher - clipped hair and soft, petulant little mouth and those glasses, for Christ's sake, packaged neat and clean, all pink and gold and white, glinting at the edges, so sharp you could almost reach out and touch him, close your fingers around him - it's not like Ryan didn't know what kind of hook, what kind of draw it would be.

And Beecher grabbed for it, hard, until the ruined bits made him bleed. It's not like you could expect him to do anything else.

No, Ryan knew the danger, giving Beecher back what he does, who he is, the danger in getting him to act like a lawyer again, and he knew how obstinate Beecher could be, pushing and pushing and pushing long past the point when he should just ... fucking ... _stop_. You take you eye off the goddam ball for one minute, and suddenly he's charging off on a mission to save Jefferson Keane's ass - like you can save anyone, like they won't just pull you down with them.

Ryan's fingertips sting against the rough concrete at his back, dragging as he slides down the wall to sit again in the dark. Out of all of them, everyone in Em City, he should have realized what a sneaky little fuck Beecher was, the way he kept slipping Vern's leash, sliding in through Ryan's defenses, no matter how deeply rooted, no matter how fucking big.

Ryan can't afford to have Beecher turn that kind of fascination and focus his way. He's got no idea how sharp Beecher really is, in his element - hell, maybe he's more than street-dumb and traumatized, maybe he's actually rock fucking stupid. Maybe he got whatever cushy law firm job he's got - he _had_ \- through family connections. Shit, no shame in that - Ryan can understand connections. Connections are there to be used, on the street corner or in whatever fancy office Beecher might have propped his tight-assed, silk-stockinged feet. Whatever. Point is, Beecher could be dumb as a goddam post. It's not like Ryan's never met any dumbshit lawyers before - fuck, his own guy couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a map.

It's just that Ryan can't take the chance. He's got no idea how sharp Beecher really is, under all the drugs and the self-pity, but he knows Beecher is a damn sight persistent, past the point of all reason, past the point when he laid down to die in the face of Vern Schillinger and got back up to walk again, to make his way through Oz, back down the mountain, like some kind of implacable force.

Ryan wonders, sometimes, if there's something in Beecher waiting to erupt, of if he'll just keep taking it and taking it, coming back for more, almost like he's looking for it, asking for it - string him up, slice him open, fuck him wide, with hands or words or drugs. What difference does a cock make, really? It's like he's looking for any it, asking for all of it. Beecher was gonna do what he was gonna do, no matter what, just like the sun was gonna fucking rise in the morning, out there, somewhere, beyond the walls, even if you couldn't see it, the same cycle happening all the same, just like Ryan was always gonna do what he had to do: Recalculate. Plan. Adapt.

Distract.

 _What you need is an upgrade_.

Starfished now on the stone floor, blind in the dark, too cold to sleep, he can still feel the scrub of Beecher's stubble against the back of his hand, the damp warmth and quick puff of exhaled breath, the burn of the heroin on the tip of his own tongue as he licked the remains away, the rush, and he remembers the thought sliding in, sudden, sharp, wondering what it would be like if Beecher shifted, cool fingers wrapping around Ryan's wrist, turning his hand to press soft lips and sharp teeth and wet tongue to the thin skin over a tracery of blue veins, where he could draw blood if he really wanted to, hot and slick with spit and salt, leaving trails of moisture in his wake, cooling in the thin air of Oz.

Ryan's fuckup. Ryan's fix.

So maybe he deserves to lose this, whatever it is that's been going on between them, built with hands and words and drugs, salt sweet and bloodwarm, running just under the skin, maybe he deserves to watch it go to shit - but he doesn't want to. Nobody's going to give you anything - who the hell has anything to spare, to give, in Oz? - so you have to take it where you can find it, wrap your fingers around it and hold on hard, steal or scavenge whatever you can.

Eight people dead on the goddam mountain, some kind of _fuck you_ , and they walk right past you when you die, leave you where you fall, and they keep climbing because they can't ever stop, not unless they want to die, too. The only ones who slow down are the ones who are already dying.

He shifts, bones aching from cold stone and the beatings he took - the beatdown when the hacks grabbed him and Healy, the frantic beating of his own body against the walls, trying to dig himself out, gasping for breath.

Knowing it's coming doesn't make it hurt any less.

Seamus taught him that.

He lets gravity pull him down into damp concrete, a muffling blanket of sheer numb exhaustion heavy over him, blurring the low-grade buzz that's been running under his skin since he walked into Oz. Maybe he sleeps. He blinks and he's not sure how much time has passed when he opens his eyes, again, darkness of night in the Hole pressing on him like a softly settling layer of snow. He blinks again, and he manages to raise one hand to his face to make sure it really happens, to feel the fluttering of his own eyelids, his exhaled breath warm in the well of his palm, and he remembers the scrub of stubble against the back of his hand, remembers the laundry room, damp heat pressing on his skin.

Tahiti, he'd been thinking, half an eye on Beecher, watching, waiting, as he flipped through the guidebook, still practically new, slick scent and pages not yet softened or dog-eared, almost crisp enough to cut yourself on, sandy beaches and crystal-clear water, blue sky and the volcanoes in the distance - Orohena and Roniu, the guidebook told him - packaged neat and clean, colors so brilliant you could almost put your hand in the picture and touch them, and he'd swear on a fucking Bible he could smell the heavy scents of bright hibiscus and warm vanilla, taste salt breeze traces on his lips, against his tongue as he slung an arm around Beecher's shoulders and leaned in, where he could draw blood if he really wanted to, and opened his hand to offer that last chance to walk away like a gift.

Those islands, they started out as volcanoes, Ryan read in the short introduction, before the guidebook got down the to real work of pricing and packages - layer on layer of lava chronicling the slow burn of the world, the heat running under its skin, a motherfucking force of nature, and still burning lush under the tropical sun.

He can feel Beecher like the other man is still tucked up under his arm, pressed close enough to smell the salt of him, to feel the blood running just under his skin, awake and alive, and if he would have just listened for once, if he would have only _listened_ , because Ryan tried to head everything off clean and quick and easy - you couldn't say he hadn't tried. He tried to fix his fuckup with minimal effort, without setting the dogs and the drugs on Beecher, but no.

 _Gotta shoot your own dog_. Seamus had been fond of the saying, even though the only thing Ryan ever saw him shoot was rats down at the scrapyard, potshots with a BB gun, and he'd saved his big ammo for his wife and kids, and it wasn't from any gun.

Motherfucker.

But Ryan knows, he knows you can't trust anyone, and you can't underestimate anyone, and Beecher, he's too close somehow, slid in between Ryan's defenses, no matter how deeply rooted, no matter how fucking big they were.

You can't get too close. The others - they'll slow you down, pull you down, and you end up dead beside them. You've gotta be willing to cut the rope so they don't drag you into the abyss with them. It's not like Beecher's any different, that way. Ryan knows better than to underestimate him again. People underestimate Ryan all the time; he counts on it, and look where it gets him. Look where it gets _them_.

Look where it got Johnny Post. Look where it got Jefferson Keane. Look where it got that fucking wop, Dino Ortolani, where it's going to get Nino Schibetta, who'll be so fucking blind to whatever goes down when Ryan can finally figure out where all this is leading, how to finally get to him, when Ryan can finally get his fingers inside that problem and lever it wide open.

Beecher, he's gonna do what he's gonna do, just like Ryan's gonna do what he has to do - except ... he doesn't. It's like Beecher's looking for any of it, asking for all of it, but Ryan can't ever seem to pull the trigger. Sure, he can set the dogs and the drugs on Beecher, jerk the leash to keep him in line - Beecher thinks he can recognize a predator, now that he's met Vern, but he never recognizes Ryan, never spots when Ryan's prowling up right behind him. But there's something keeping Beecher alive - some kind of sixth sense Ryan doesn't understand but he's learned to listen to in the death zone, on the street, when to duck and when to run, when to grab something fast, hold on even when the ruined bits make you bleed, because you're going to need whatever reserves you can scavenge or steal.

Ryan can feel Beecher's heart beating under his hand, in the dark, and he clenches his fist, rolling on his side to curl in on himself like he can keep that heat, that rhythm, cupped there, or crush it out.

Beecher, yeah - he might want to go. He might want to climb the mountain. How hard can it be, surviving a mountain, once you've dealt with Vern Schillinger? You'd have to be a dumbass, not to beat a mountain. It doesn't even have a brain. And Beecher's smart - too smart for his own good, sometimes.

Ryan's almost given up hope that Beecher will ever turn that focus and fascination on him, really turn it on him, sharp like Ryan needs him to be, teasing out whatever this is between them, how it really works, what it really means - not the hearts and flowers Beecher has with wifey, not the ham-fisted fucking with Vern, not even the short sharp collisions of Ryan's constant love affair with Shannon or the steady burn of Cyril at his back, confidence and violence warming his back, but something sliced open, fucked wide, something built with hands and words and drugs, salt of blood and tears, sharp edge of teeth, heat humming under Ryan's hands, opening for fingers and cock, cupped in his palms, rooted in the earth and built really fucking big.

He jerks off, hand pulling rough and sting of salt that could be sweat or blood or precum - who can tell in the dark? - against the raw flesh of his thumb when he smears it over the head. He left at least three bloody fingerprints the last time he scratched at the walls, tried to dig himself out. The cut on his lip splits open again as he bites down, spine arched, pulling air deep into his lungs, gasping for breath, like high altitude.

Your blood gets thicker up there, they say, and he can feel it in his veins, rich and slow and golden. Your heart beats faster, your breathing speeds up.

Like love, maybe.

Ryan's always wanted what he's not supposed to have: blue sky and pure white sand, salt breeze, heat and explosive force running just under the skin, waiting to erupt and take down everything in its path - a motherfucking force of nature sliding in between things with deep roots and built really fucking big - and he laughs suddenly, a short sharp bark of sound, startling clear and ringing in the darkness.

Love is like oxygen deprivation, all right. There's no goddam oxygen to his brain, because it's all below his belt.

Well, where his belt would be, if he ever wore a belt.

And if they hadn't taken all his clothes.

Maybe he's still just detoxing.

There's no answering bang at the door this time. Whoever was parked outside must have wandered off to take a piss or find some bad coffee. In the black, he rolls over on his stomach, presses one burning cheek against the cold stone floor and thinks about the volcano - Orohena, Roniu, either one, doesn't matter, dormant now. Shield volcanoes, they call them, laying down layer on layer of lava, molten rock rising inexorably to the surface, building islands, chronicling the slow burn of the world, making that shield thicker and thicker every time they erupt.

Beecher's face flashes behind his eyelids in the dark, sudden, grinning, something a little wild lurking under petulant rebellion and stupid bravado, glinting off the edges, too sharp and quickly gone for even Ryan to close his fingers around it, a smirk and a scowl, sliding in between things with deep roots and built really fucking big.

What's a volcano but a mountain with fire under its skin?

To beat a mountain - to survive in the death zone, on the street, in Oz - you've just gotta do two things: Be prepared and be smart. You can't stop, you can't ever stop, or you die where you fall. You have to keep climbing, even if it means climbing over the bodies.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.


End file.
